


The Long Journey Home

by SilverSkiesAtMidnight



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, An appropriate amount of fluff, And eventual marriage, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Kíli/Tauriel - Freeform, Bilbo Baggins Whump, Brief Vomiting, Consort Bilbo Baggins, Eventual Happy Ending, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Hobbit Illness, Hurt Bilbo Baggins, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mild Guilt, Protective Thorin, Sickfic, Tenderness, mild alcohol use, or tries to anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 08:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18912868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSkiesAtMidnight/pseuds/SilverSkiesAtMidnight
Summary: So it went: the mountain was reclaimed, and the kingdom was reborn in war.There were elves, dwarves, men, horses, orcs, wargs, running, fighting, yelling, dying. Bilbo, too, ran, but he had eyes for one thing and one thing only:Thorin.And he found him, there, on Ravenhill, battling the great white orc, right where Bilbo knew and dreaded he would be. And as he dreaded, as he feared like he had never feared anything before, Thorin was struck down before his eyes, and Azog raised his blade for the killing blow.Bilbo didn’t even have to think. He slipped off the ring, and he charged.Or:After the battle, all seems like it's ended better than anyone could possibly have hoped for. The company is alive, and Thorin and Bilbo are soon to be married. But all is not the happy ending it seems.Something is wrong with Bilbo.





	The Long Journey Home

So it went: the mountain was reclaimed, and the kingdom was reborn in war. 

There were elves, dwarves, men, horses, orcs, wargs, running, fighting, yelling, dying. Bilbo, too, ran, but he had eyes for one thing and one thing only:

Thorin. 

And he found him, there, on Ravenhill, battling the great white orc, right where Bilbo knew and dreaded he would be. And as he dreaded, as he feared like he had never feared anything before, Thorin was struck down before his eyes, and Azog raised his blade for the killing blow. 

Bilbo didn’t even have to think. He slipped off the ring, and he charged.

… 

Death didn’t come for Thorin on that day.

The sword above him came down, quickly, too quickly to block, but something _did_ block it. 

From nowhere, suddenly there was a warm, tiny body on top of him, between him and the blade, deadening the impact so it was nothing more than a hard jolt for the dwarf beneath. 

Thorin saw the golden curls that landed upon his chest, and his heart was seized by ice. 

With a roar, he flung Orcrist with all his might, and the ugly, startled face of Azog went slack as he slumped to the ground, the sword lodged in his skull. 

Thorin didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything except the precious form cradled in his arms, as he lay the hobbit back against the rock with shaking hands. There was a rip in his shirt where Azog struck him, right above his heart. No blood stained the fabric yet, and he was too terrified to feel for a pulse, to even see if there was still a heart beating to spill it. 

“Mahal, no, _please,_ ” he rasped, barely able to breathe past the dreadful thing which had coiled itself around his lungs, around the place where the blade meant for him should have landed. “ _Bilbo,_ ” and his voice broke.

A pair of brown eyes cracked open, and blinked. 

“Sweet _Yavanna_ , that hurt,” Bilbo croaked. 

Thorin frantically blinked away the sudden fogginess in his eyes, breath stuttering out in a relieved gasp. His hand found one of the hobbit’s and squeezed tightly. “Bilbo. Bilbo, you’re going to be okay,” he said furiously, with all the power of a king’s command behind it. “We’ll find a healer, you’re going to be - ”

Bilbo pulled his hand away, frowning, and reached towards his own chest. Thorin tried to stop him, fearing the shock of him realizing his own wound, but Bilbo batted him away with an expression of annoyance. He reached up again, pulling the top of his shirt down, to reveal - 

The gleam of mithril. 

Oh, Mahal, the arkenstone itself had never shone so wondrously. 

Bilbo looked up at him, a small, bewildered and relieved grin on his face. His hair was a mess of matted, muddy curls, blood and dirt was smeared over every inch of visible skin, and Thorin thought that he and the mithril shirt were in fierce competition for the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. “I must say, Thorin, this shirt is easily the second best gift I’ve ever received.”

A startled laugh burst from Thorin’s chest, from the suddenly light place beneath his ribs that had so recently been occupied by such terrible pain. “Only the second?”

Bilbo looked at him very solemnly. “My cousin Primula makes truly lovely scarfs. She gave me one for Yule last year, and it’s the softest thing I’ve ever worn.”

“A _scarf,_ ” Thorin said disbelievingly. “A scarf. Oh, you strange, wonderful, spectacular little - ” He leaned forward, cupping a hand behind the hobbit’s head, threading his fingers through the muddy curls to pull him forward and press their foreheads together. 

It was easier, this way, if incredibly cowardly, to say what he needed to say. 

“There are no words which can make up for the crimes I have committed against you,” he breathed, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “But you deserve all the words I can give and more. Bilbo, I am so _sorry_. I’m sorry for dragging you out of your home and into such a mess. I’m sorry for my cruelty as I lead you here, and I am so, so, sorry for the weakness which caused me to - ” he choked, images of a pale throat beneath his hands and terrified eyes looking up at him flashing through his mind. “I am sorry for ever thinking, even for a moment, that that Mahal-damned _rock_ was worth more than the lives of you and the rest of my kin, ghivashel.”

Bilbo was quick to take one of Thorin’s braids in hand, giving it a gentle, chiding tug before resting his fingers lightly among the rest of his locks. “Hey now, it’s okay. It wasn’t you, you weren’t yourself. I know it, and the rest of the company knows it too. You were _sick_ , Thorin. There’s nothing to forgive.” 

Thorin swallowed back bile. “I should have been stronger. The gold sickness should never have had that firm a grasp on me in the first place.”

To his surprise, Bilbo snorted lightly in response. “You shook it off eventually. From what I hear, that still puts you miles ahead of the rest of your family line.”

Thorin huffed, and promptly grunted in pain, the earlier blow that had struck him down making itself known as the adrenaline faded. 

“Thorin, you’re bleeding,” Bilbo gasped, jerking back, and then just as abruptly he blanched, slumping backwards against the rock. The king’s heart leapt into his throat, his own wound immediately forgotten as he frantically patted the hobbit down, searching for whatever injury he’d missed. 

“S’okay, just - _ah_ \- ribs, bit bruised, I think. What about you? You have blood on you,” Bilbo wheezed. 

Thorin spared barely a moment to look himself over. “A scratch, nothing more. Come, let me help you up. We must get you to Óin, make sure there’s nothing broken.”

“Only my dignity, I’d say,” he sighed, and they both began the grueling process of standing up and limping off the battlefield, leaning heavily against each other as they went. 

 

…

The orcs had cleared out quickly once their leader had fallen, the few stragglers being hunted down swiftly enough, and the pair encountered no trouble on their way. In no time, Óin had them wrangled into a healing tent, where he declared both of them to be very heroic idiots, and also very fortunate. 

“Lucky you don’t have a popped lung, lad!” he boomed once he’d finished examining Bilbo. “As it is, you’ve just got about, oh, I’d say five cracked ribs. You’ll live, though there’s not much I can do to help, ‘cept give you some pain potions and tell you to keep still, which I’m sure you’ll not do since you and Oakenhead have clearly been spending too much time together.” 

Thorin didn’t look chastised in the slightest, despite being propped up with bandages wrapped around his stitched midsection, only (in Bilbo’s opinion) alarmingly serious and determined. “He shall not move from that bed until such a time as you deem it safe,” he swore, confirming that Bilbo had good reason to be alarmed. 

He narrowed his eyes at the king, who only glowered stubbornly back. “That goes for you too, then, _your highness_ , unless you want poor Óin to have to stitch you back up again every half hour when he no doubt has plenty of other patients to deal with.”

Balin, standing beside the other dwarf’s cot, grinned and poked Óin with an elbow. “Maybe with enough pigheadedness they’ll keep each other in check, eh?”

Dwalin, seated by the door as guard, snorted. “We’ll see about that.”

Thorin crossed his arms, and glowered harder. “First, I want to see my nephews.”

Dori, the only other one in the tent even slightly injured, even if it was nothing more than a sprained wrist, sighed. “They’re fine, my king, I swear it. Kíli is sleeping off a light head injury and Fíli has a broken leg, but both of them will be up and making trouble before you know it. Best you get your rest while you still can.” 

“I want to see them for myself,” Thorin demanded, belligerently. 

Bilbo shrugged, then hid the regret that action promptly caused him, flipping the blanket back off his legs. “Well, if the _king_ is up and wandering, I’m certainly capable of making myself useful.”

“You will _not_ \- ” Thorin said, alarmed, as Dwalin heaved a great, exasperated sigh. 

Bilbo leveled him with a glare, already half off the bed. “I won’t if you won’t.”

He waited until he received an extremely reluctant nod of agreement before he settled back under the covers, carefully concealing the agonizing burn throughout his torso. 

Judging by the knowing eyebrow Óin raised at him, he didn’t do a very good job of it. 

“Here, laddie, drink this. It’ll help.” The healer gave him a small vial of rather unpleasant potion, which he drank gratefully anyway. 

“Thanks,” he said, passing the empty vial back to Óin and slumping back a little into the stack of pillows propping him up. He glanced over to Thorin, and saw him looking distinctly unhappy and possibly a tiny bit guilty. “Just until it’s actually safe for you to be up and about, okay?” he told the dwarf, slightly more gentle than before. “It won’t do them any good to take up the healers’ time.”

Thorin looked over to him with a grave expression. “Aye,” he rumbled. “For you, I’ll do it.”

Bilbo felt a tinge of pink rise to his cheeks, and nodded briskly. “Well. That’s quite alright then.” 

He primly chose not to acknowledge Dwalin’s snicker. 

…

This arrangement got old fast. 

Luckily, Fíli and Kíli were able to come visit only the following evening, and it clearly did wonders for Thorin’s mood to be able to see the pair whole and (mostly) hale, even if Fíli was on crutches and Kíli had bandages wrapped around his head. 

But there was a new kingdom on the rise, and the duties of a new king didn’t disappear just because he was stuck in bed. So Bilbo’s brilliant scheme really just meant he was trapped five feet from a very crabby king and the seemingly constant stream of people coming through who demanded his attention. 

When he wasn’t meeting with anyone, he was still working, sending out letters and going through maps of the mountain Ori had managed to scrounge up from somewhere, trying to plot out which places and systems needed attention first. 

And yet he had the _nerve_ to lecture Bilbo for grinding herbs for medicine and poultices. 

“You’ll pull on your ribs,” the dwarf said through gritted teeth, gripping his quill tightly enough Bilbo that feared for its safety. 

“Thorin, you are being ridiculous,” Bilbo returned, continuing to grind away with his pestle. “Óin said that this was perfectly acceptable work for me to do without moving too much, and as long as I am conscious and can move my arms I am _not_ going to lay here and do nothing while _everyone else_ is busy.”

“You haven’t been doing nothing, you’ve been helping advise me on matters of reconstruction!” 

“Helping you while _you_ work.”

“Yes! Because _my_ work won’t pull on any broken ribs!” 

“Thorin, you threw a roll of bandages at an elf not three hours ago,” he cried in exasperation, longing for the time to come again when he can throw his arms up in the air at moments like this. “Honestly Thorin, what would you have me do, lie here like a big lump when I am perfectly capable of at least doing _this?_ ” 

“Marry me,” Thorin blurted out. The quill snapped. 

Bilbo dropped the mortar, dumping plantain all over his own lap. He paid it no mind, staring wide-eyed at the dwarf, who was now staring thunderously at the pile of spilled herbs as though Thranduil himself had just risen out of them. “Mar - _what?_ ”

“I would have you marry me,” Thorin growled, still choosing to address the herbs instead of meeting Bilbo’s eyes. He took a deep breath, seeming to consciously loosen his grip on the two halves of broken feather and move it before any more ink spilled on the letter he was writing to his sister Dís. “I know that I have done absolutely nothing to deserve the honor of having you remain here in Erebor, and even less to have earned the right to ask for your hand. But I - I would. Marry you. And I know it is selfish, but now that the mountain is once again within my people’s hands - within _my_ hands - I find the thought of ruling without you by my side to be...an unpleasant one,” he said quietly, sounding almost resigned. He turned his face away, head bowed. “But the very fact that you have forgiven me is kindness beyond what I deserve, and that you have given me that much is evidence of the incredible strength of your heart. I do not ask for any more than the friendship you have been willing to offer, for that alone is more precious than any stone or golden coin in this or any other treasury.”

Bilbo’s mouth opened and closed several times without making a sound before he was able to snap it shut. 

He swallowed, and began carefully pushing the partially ground herbs back into the mortar, recognizing this more than any other moment in his life as a time to weigh his response carefully before giving it. He steadily ignored the tension in the tent, until he was completely confident in his answer. 

“I accept.”

And as soon as he said it, he felt something settle comfortably deep in his gut, and he knew he’d made the right choice. 

Thorin’s head whipped up, his eyes about as big as the sunflowers that grew in the Gamgee’s yard. “You - you what?”

“I accept,” Bilbo said, in a very respectable imitation of calm. “Your proposal, that is. I’m assuming there was a proposal buried somewhere in that speech you just gave?” He chanced a glance up. 

The two seemed to have switched roles, and Thorin was now the one gaping like a fish. “I’m saying I’ll marry you, you dolt,” he added for good measure, then flushed at the utter lack of manners in calling your new fiance (fiance!!) a dolt while accepting their marriage proposal. 

He decided his loss of composure was forgivable. He had just agreed to marry a king, after all. 

… 

The news was met with an explosive amount of enthusiasm and joy, and suspiciously little surprise, in Bilbo’s opinion. A proper engagement party was put off only as long as it took for Bilbo and Thorin to be cleared for celebration by Óin, a room big enough for the entire party to be cleaned out, and for Bombur to be able to scrounge up enough food from the meager supplies available to cook them a proper feast. It ended up being a combination engagement/moving-in party, for it took place the same night the Royal Chambers were officially declared habitable and the pair were finally and gratefully able to move out of the medical tent and into the mountain itself.

And a joyous party it was indeed. It was the first chance any of the company had really given themselves to relax and simply bask in their survival and victory, and the singing, laughing, and drinking ran late into the night, only ending when exhaustion almost as much as dwarrow mead had Bilbo fully prepared to fall asleep at the table, and judging from the way he was swaying ever-so-slightly Thorin was no better off. 

With very little coaxing from Óin, they retreated to the Royal Chambers, which Bilbo was ashamed to admit he was too exhausted to admire properly beyond the absolute miracle that was a proper bed, big enough for King and Consort. 

And as much as the others had snickered and whistled when they left, too drunk to be intimidated by Thorin’s regal glare, nothing inappropriate happened in those chambers that night.

Rather, the two fell together into the wonderful bed, tangled around each other like roots, and passed out almost immediately.

In the very brief period of time before he fell asleep, Bilbo thought that really, all of this could have been simply to reclaim this bed and this moment, and it would still have been worth it a thousand times over.

...

Morning came, and with it one of the worst headaches of Bilbo’s life. 

Groaning, he untangled himself from Thorin and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, determined to find a bathroom and some water immediately. 

No sooner had he tried to stand up, however, when a wave of weakness swept through him, and his knees buckled. He caught himself on the bed frame, barely, his head swimming even worse than before as he swallowed back bile.

Behind him, Thorin made a vaguely concerned noise, and mumbled something that sounded like “‘you a’igh?” into his pillow. 

It took Bilbo another moment to be able to speak. “I’m never drinking Dwarrow mead again,” he moaned at last. 

Thorin snorted through his hair, then let out an agonized groan of his own. 

“Good, if I have to suffer you do too,” Bilbo mumbled, and continued on his quest for the bathroom with no further incident. 

Fortunately, it seemed hobbit metabolism was still working in his favor, and by the time breakfast rolled around he was feeling much more chipper. 

“Good morning Kíli! And how are you this lovely day?” he said brightly and rather loudly, feeling very little guilt for the way the boy flinched back and whined as he reached for the butter. 

“ _Children,_ ” Dwalin snorted. Other than the dark circles under his eyes, he too seemed none the worse for wear. Still, as the rest of the company joined them, Bilbo was not a little smug to see that everyone else was clearly feeling the after-effects of their celebration far worse than he was. 

Even if he did still have a bit of a headache, but there was no need to let _them_ know that.

Fíli mumbled something in khuzdul as he plopped down beside his brother, which caused Thorin to reach across and smack him in the side of the head. 

“Best not let your mother hear you speak like that when she arrives,” Balin said, a twinkle in his eye. 

Both boys brightened instantly, and even Thorin leaned forward to look down the table at the older dwarf. “Mother’s coming!?” Kíli cried, at the same time as Thorin said “Dís is on her way?” 

“Aye,” Balin responded, tipping his head towards them both, a smile on his lips. “A raven arrived this morning, she’ll be here within the month.”

Cheers immediately erupted from the other side of the table, and excited murmurings from the other dwarves. Bilbo looked to Thorin, to see that he too was smiling, a relieved slump to his shoulders that the hobbit had rarely seen. He lay a gentle hand on his arm, and Thorin looked down at him, eyes soft. 

“She’ll love you,” he said quietly, unheard by anyone but Bilbo. 

Bilbo’s lips quirked up. “Let’s hope so.” 

Thorin reached down to take his hand, and Bilbo squeezed it lightly before turning back to his breakfast. 

He couldn’t tell if it was nerves or just leftover from the hangover, but the toast settled uncomfortably in his stomach that morning.

…

Luckily, there turned out to be plenty to distract him over the coming days. As it turned out, running a new kingdom was...busy. When he wasn’t asleep, he was in the library with Ori, helping to transcribe damaged works and translate those in Sindarin. When he wasn’t doing that, he was sitting in on meetings with Thorin, learning the ins and outs of Dwarven government and offering advice and observations to the king. 

Really, it was no wonder he was constantly exhausted. It was even affecting his appetite, which was no easy feat. He found himself rarely hungry, and not particularly inclined to eat even when he knew he ought to. Clearly, he had just gotten too used to the meager amount of food available during the quest, and his stomach hadn’t adjusted back to normal yet. He tried to make more of an effort to swing by the kitchens and sample the new recipes constantly being developed by Bombur, now head chef. 

Still, two weeks after their engagement party and a month and a half after the Battle of the Five Armies, Thorin took notice. 

“I can feel your ribs,” he murmured, running his fingers lightly along Bilbo’s side as they lay together one night. 

“Mm. Don’t be too rough, I think they’re still a bit tender,” he mumbled back. His eyes were shut as his head rested on Thorin’s shoulder, sleep tugging as persistently at his mind as it ever was lately. 

Despite the humor in his voice, Thorin’s touch softened even further, till he could just barely feel his fingertips against his ribs. 

He cracked his eyes open to look at him, opening them completely when he saw the slight frown on his fiance’s brow. 

“You were so soft when I first met you,” Thorin said quietly before Bilbo could say anything. 

He snorted. “Thanks,” he said drily. 

Thorin’s scowl deepened, and he shook his head slightly, careful not to dislodge Bilbo’s resting spot. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” he huffed a sigh against Bilbo’s hair. “I should never be able to feel your bones. It’s not as it should be.” 

Bilbo reached up, wrapping his fingers around the dark courting braid Thorin had taught him how to put in his lover’s hair. Careful not to tug too hard, he rolled them over until he was on top of the dwarf, the king warm and pliant beneath him. “All is already as it should be,” he murmured, and leaned down for a kiss. 

Sleep could wait a just a little longer. 

…

At this point, given the choice, Bilbo thought he might genuinely choose facing Smaug again over having to sit in this council room with these bickering lords for even one more minute. He had completely given up on trying to be subtle about massaging his throbbing temples, it wasn’t like anyone was paying him any attention anyway. 

One of the most important lessons about dwarven diplomacy that he had learned thus far by sitting in on these meetings was that there was no such thing. 

“The goldworker’s guild has _always_ held the forges closest to the treasury!” Lord Calid howled. “To give it to the ironworkers is a desecration of tradition!”

“It’s temporary,” Bilbo mumbled.

“The ironworker’s guild _needs_ those forges until our own are fully repaired! What, you think you’re going to be making a lot of sodding gold coins right now, you mangy-bearded _toad!?_ ” Lord Varilyd bellowed right back. 

“It’s only for a couple months,” Bilbo said to the table right in front of his face. 

“You just want the gold forges because they’re _bigger!_ ”

“They’re the _same size,_ ” Bilbo cried into his hands. 

From there, the yelling and shouting dissolved into a mess of furious khuzdul, and there was no longer any point in him even trying to pry the conversation back into civilized territory. His head pounded like a drum as the din seemed to grow louder and louder. 

He didn’t realize he was standing up until they all fell silent.

“Forgive me,” he stammered out. “I’ve… I’ve just remembered somewhere I need to be.”

He fled before anyone could stop him. 

… 

Bilbo heard the hasty approach of boots and the swish of a cloak as Thorin caught up with him in the hallway outside, and spun around as a hand caught at his wrist. 

“I’m fine, Thorin!” he snapped, and immediately felt badly for doing so. Thorin looked down at him with wide, worried eyes. “I’m fine. I’m so sorry for my behavior in there, I just...I’ve got the worst headache,” he mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Shall I send for Óin?” Thorin asked, and Bilbo could tell by the seemingly threatening tone of voice that he had truly spooked the dwarf, and felt even worse. 

“No, no, I don’t think that will be necessary, thank you.” He forced a smile, and patted Thorin’s arm comfortingly. “I think I just need to lie down and nap for a little while. Do tell the lords I’m terribly sorry for my rudeness, won’t you?”

Thorin scowled. “They owe you an apology for their conduct, not the other way around,” he countered. 

Bilbo waved a hand dismissively, not willing to risk shaking his head. “It’s not important. Just...just let me rest for a bit. Like my dad always said, a good nap fixes all.” He shot him a last, shaky smile, and retreated, ignoring the eyes he could sense fixed on his back as he went. 

…

Despite having every intention to sleep once he got back to their chambers, Bilbo was quite wide awake, and unable to get a wink of rest.

For all that he truly was exhausted, he wasn’t _tired_. Instead, he...itched. 

What he wanted to do was get out of the mountain. He wanted it fiercely, as though the massive room he was in was nothing more than a little pine coffin, and he was running out of air. 

He paced the length of the room on tired legs, the wild thought running through his mind that he would take the Mirkwood in a heartbeat if it meant just getting out from under this bloody pile of rock. 

And suddenly, like a torch flaring up in the darkness, he remembered the balcony. 

He’d never been out on it, never even opened the door before, but he remembered Thorin pointing it out to him when they’d first moved in, warning Bilbo not to go out until it could be checked and ensured to be structurally sound. 

At that moment, Bilbo didn’t care about structural soundness. He cared only about getting outside. 

He threw open the heavy wooden door, and was met with a blast of bitter cold. 

But more important than that: a ray of sunshine. 

It was a little like taking a breath after being underwater for too long, and he wondered how he’d slipped under in the first place without noticing. He stepped out on to the stone, drinking in the light and the air, even though it was so cold it burned his throat and lungs. 

The sunlight was weak, filtered through the misty clouds, and did almost nothing to warm his skin. But it warmed _something_ , deep within, something that flowered outward through his veins and soothed the itch he’d so strongly felt. 

He tipped his head back and let it wash over and through him. If he closed his eyes, he found, so he couldn’t see his breath coming out in great clouded puffs, he could pretend he was down in Laketown, or in the greenwood, or even back home in the Shire. 

He didn’t know how long he stayed out there, only that it was not nearly long enough, but finally the cold forced him to either retreat or freeze. It almost ached to shut the door again behind him, but the itch had faded, and even his headache was no longer so overwhelming. Clearly, he was too stressed, and had needed the fresh air.

Perhaps in the spring he could travel to Dale for a week or two, he decided. That would help relieve this strange claustrophobia if it stayed. After all, it was only natural that living in a mountain full-time would take some adjusting for a hobbit like him. 

He could hold out until spring.

… 

His hands had been shaking. 

They’d shaken that morning, when he’d been forced to redo Thorin’s courtship braid three times before it was suitable. 

“Your hair’s being uncooperative today,” he’d said as lightly as he could when he saw Thorin glancing at him, brow furrowed. He’d kept his fingers carefully out of his fiancé’s line of sight the entire time he’d worked. 

Thorin had smiled at him, reaching up to touch the bead at the end of Bilbo’s own braid, put in for the day minutes earlier. “You’ve got years to practice.” 

Bilbo smiled back, took a deep breath, and had tried again, willing his hands to cooperate. 

They’d shaken when he’d gone to the library to join Ori, and the tremors had been too bad for him to do any proper transcription work, forcing him instead to merely take notes on the translated works in progress, intending to copy them out properly once his hands had stopped whatever nonsense this was. 

Now, staring down at the broken teacup that had slipped through his shaking and nearly numb fingertips, he was forced to admit that there might be something truly wrong. 

Within an hour, he was sitting before Óin as he examined him. 

The dwarf’s expression was grave. 

“Well, laddie,” he said, as close to quiet as Óin ever spoke. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to tell you. It’s nothing dwarrow, and I don’t know enough about hobbits to have much knowledge worth sharing. You’re sure this is nothing you’ve seen before?” 

Bilbo shook his head, staring down at his trembling fingers. “Headaches, sure. Tiredness too, they’re both common enough. But I’ve never seen shaking hands like this except in the very old, and I believe it usually develops over the course of years, not days. I’ve never heard of this sort of - of claustrophobia either. And - and the nausea and loss of appetite. That’s - that’s something we usually only see in those very near to death,” he said quietly. 

Óin pursed his lips, reaching out to pat Bilbo’s arm comfortingly. “Now then, it’s probably not as bad as all that. You’ve hardly lived a normal hobbit’s life, it’s no surprise you might get sick a bit oddly. Hobbits don’t ‘usually’ journey across Middle Earth and settle with an unfamiliar culture under a mountain, eh? Could mess with anyone’s appetite, even a hobbit’s.” 

Bilbo frowned, squeezing his hands into fists and releasing them again. “I had wondered if maybe the lack of food on the road had simply confused my stomach,” he admitted. 

Óin perked up. “There you go! A sensible enough explanation. Now, I noticed your heart rate is rather fast. With your sensitive stomach right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re dehydrated, which could very easily explain your shaking hands all on its own. Probably not helping with your headache either. I reckon most of your problem, though, is just an average cold. With your injuries and all the stress you’ve been under, you were bound to come down with something eventually.” He placed an aged hand over Bilbo’s tightened fist, waiting until he looked up and met his eyes before continuing on in a gentle voice. “I’m not surprised by the claustrophobia either. A hobbit twice as fierce as you, if such a fantastical creature even exists, would struggle to adjust to life under a mountain among another race. Just don’t forget you’re among kin, alright lad? You can come to any one of us if there’s anything we can do to help make it easier. And for Mahal’s sake,” his voice raised back to its normal level as he sat back on his stool. “Don’t spend any more time on balconies in winter without even a coat. You’re feeling worse? I’d reckon that’s a good part of why. Honestly, Master Baggins,” he finished in exasperation. 

Bilbo left with a vial of cold medicine, instructions once again to rest as much as possible, and a heavy sort of desperate hope for him to cling to. 

…

Three days later, he was worse. 

“Ghivashel,” Thorin’s soft voice floated through the haze of sleep. Bilbo hummed, his eyes still shut where he was curled up against the pillows. “You need to drink. Óin says it’s important.” 

The rim of a mug pressed against his lips, and he raised his head just enough to take a sip. 

“I can stay,” Thorin said quietly, setting the mug on the table next to the bed. 

“No you can’t,” he replied hoarsely, dropping his head tiredly back to the pillow. “You need to meet with the men from Dale to talk about the trade route.” 

“The men from Dale can go rot in the Mirkwood if it means I can stay here to make sure you’re okay,” he said firmly. 

“Hush,” Bilbo chided without heat. “Go be a king. It’s just a cold, and I’ll only be sleeping anyways.” 

He didn’t realize his eyes had slipped closed again until he felt lips press against his forehead. “I’ll be back as soon as our business with them is concluded,” the dwarf murmured into his curls. 

Bilbo merely made a soft sound of acknowledgement, before he drifted back into unconsciousness. 

… 

He wasn’t sure how long he slept before the sound of the door opening roused him. “Thorin?” he croaked, and the sound of quick footsteps echoed through the room. 

“I’m here, kidhuzurâl,” he said in a hushed voice, appearing in front of him. “Do you think you can eat something?”

Bilbo nodded, not fully processing what he was saying. 

“I’ll tell the guard to go fetch some bread and soup.” Thorin disappeared again from in front of him. 

Bilbo struggled to sit up, his stomach rolling. He knew, abruptly, what was about to happen. 

He ran for it, past Thorin’s worried voice calling after him and into the bathroom. It was a miracle he made it on such weak and shaky legs, but there was no time to be grateful for that before he was puking into the toilet. 

At some point, he became aware of a hand on his back, and Thorin’s voice murmuring a string of soothing Khuzdul. 

“Could you get me some water?” he rasped. 

The hand disappeared, and Bilbo took the time to gather himself. He somehow managed to get himself standing, swaying heavily. He heard Thorin hurrying back, and turned to face him, reaching up to wipe at his mouth as he did. 

The stoneware mug hit the floor. 

“Bilbo,” Thorin gasped, sounding like someone had punched him in the gut. 

Bilbo paid him little mind, his attention caught on the beads of red that clung to his hand like rubies. 

“Oh,” he choked out. “Oh.” 

He looked up, finally meeting Thorin’s horrified eyes. “Thorin,” he whispered. “I think something’s really wrong.” 

His knees gave out. 

Arms wrapped around him before he could hit the floor, but all he could see were the black stars flaring in front of his eyes. 

He heard Thorin’s frantic voice bellowing above him. 

“Get Óin! Get him now!” 

The taste of iron clung to his tongue as the darkness enveloped him completely. 

…

Bilbo woke to the sight of a potted plant. 

He stared at it, mind blank and body aching, trying weakly to grasp onto some semblance of sense. 

Someone shifted beside him, and his eyes slipped over to land on a familiar dark mane of silver-streaked hair. 

“Thorin?” His voice was barely a whisper, and he licked his dry lips. 

The figure heard anyway, and turned towards him. Dark brown eyes fixed on him, and Lady Dís smiled at him. “Not quite,” she said simply. 

Once again a mug was pressed to his lips, and he drank gratefully. “I’m sorry to have missed your arrival,” he tried again to speak, and was relieved to find his voice slightly stronger. 

Dís snorted. “You’re exactly as overly-polite as they say. This isn’t precisely how I had hoped to meet you either, little hobbit.” 

He tipped his head slightly in acknowledgment. “How long have you been here?” 

“Four days. Gandalf arrived yesterday.” 

Bilbo frowned. “Gandalf?” 

She nodded gravely. “Aye. Thorin sent for him immediately after you collapsed. He’s the one who brought the plant.” 

Bilbo looked at the plant. It was an anemone, in a chipped pot and with battered leaves and blossoms, rather like it had been carried in a saddlebag somewhere between growing in the ground and being brought to the mountain. He reached out to touch one of the leaves, a tendril of comforting warmth spreading through his fingers as he did, and he suddenly deeply missed his garden. 

He forced himself to withdraw his hand. “Why?” 

Dís shrugged slowly. “He wouldn’t say. I think he was waiting for you to wake up. Been driving Thorin absolutely mad waiting.” 

“Where is he? Thorin, that is.” 

She smiled, a little sadly, and jerked her chin over his shoulder. 

He turned his head on his pillow, and for the first time spotted the king curled on a chair that had been pulled up beside the bed, a fur clearly tossed over him by someone else. 

“He hasn’t been doing much of that lately, has he?” he murmured. 

“No,” she answered. “This is the first time since I’ve arrived.” 

“Well, don’t wake him,” he said, as firmly as he could manage. “But when he does awaken, I’d appreciate if you would wake me too, and see to it that Gandalf comes to speak to us. I suspect he’s got something he needs to tell us.”

…

Gandalf looked old.

He had always been old, as long as Bilbo had known him, but he’d never quite looked it the way he did right now. 

“You’re dying, Bilbo,” he said tiredly. “And you will continue to do so as long as you are beneath this mountain.” 

Beside him, Thorin made a choked sound, his hand tightening almost painfully around Bilbo’s. The hobbit didn’t look at him, unable to handle the expression he knew he’d see. 

He cleared his throat before he spoke. “Why am I dying?” he asked in a level voice. 

Gandalf leaned heavily on his staff. “Because you are of Yavanna’s children, and you were not made to live so far from her realm.” He looked down at the hobbit with ancient eyes. “Hobbits draw their strength from sun and soil, and without it, they will fade and wither. As you are doing now.” 

“Why did you not warn us?” Thorin whispered, a wounded, furious undertone to his voice. “Clearly you knew. How could you not tell us, how could you let this _happen?_ ” He was no longer whispering but shouting, Bilbo’s hand clenched in a white-knuckled grip. Dís said nothing, but there was a tightness to her face that showed her agreement.

“Thorin,” Bilbo said quietly. 

Instantly, the dwarf’s eyes snapped down to him, and he could see the full force of the grief and terror swirling in their blue depths. 

He waited until he saw the slight slump of his shoulders that meant his fury had subsided slightly before he looked back to the wizard, waiting for an answer. 

“I had no idea it would be this severe,” Gandalf answered sincerely. “I’ve certainly never heard of a hobbit dying from this before. But then, I’ve never heard of a hobbit trying to live inside of a mountain either.” 

Bilbo huffed without any real humor. Part of him wanted to be angry with the wizard, but the rage simply wasn’t there. Even if he _had_ been warned, he knew, deep down, that he would have tried anyway. 

He bit his lip, twisting his hands in the blanket. Then he nodded shortly. “Okay. Okay. Sun and soil, right? So we can fix this. I’ll spend lots of time on the balcony. And - and the potted plant. It helped, right? That’s why you brought it. So I’ll get some plants, and I’ll be fine.” 

“We can do that,” Thorin joined in, a manic, desperate light in his eyes. He cupped Bilbo’s face in his hand, which the hobbit pressed into. “I’ll build you a garden, amrâlimê, as big as you need, full of flowers and fruit. You will be well again, I swear it.” 

But somehow, Bilbo wasn’t surprised when Gandalf began to shake his head, pain carved into the lines of his face. 

“Bilbo,” Gandalf said, in a voice far too gentle. “No matter how many potted plants you keep, how many hours you spend on your balcony, how much soil you pour on the floor, you will never be able to thrive in this place. There is very little that grows within a mountain, except for mushrooms, I suppose, but they’re to plants what dwarves are to hobbits. This is not Yavanna’s land, and you cannot live a true life disconnected from her. At best, you might be able to manage a half-life, withered and weakened under the stone, and I can promise you right now that it would be an agonizing existence not only for you, but for everyone that loves you.”

It was deeply tempting to argue. To try and explain that it will be a half-life any path he takes, that he would rather be forever weak if it means he can keep his heart whole. 

But there was so much agony in Thorin’s eyes beside him. 

He imagined his beloved taking time away from his kingship to come sit at his sickbed for all the days he had yet to live, forced to tend to a weakened and shriveled husk of his own husband. 

And he knew the king would do it, without ever letting slip a word of how much it would hurt him.

And he knew he could never be so selfish. 

“I have to leave Erebor,” he said quietly. “Don’t I?” 

“No,” Thorin breathed. 

“I’m afraid so,” Gandalf answered wearily. “Unless you want to watch the one you love wilt away, slowly and painfully?” he addressed Thorin. 

The dwarf swallowed heavily. His eyes were fixed on the fire in the grate, and Bilbo could see the way they shone too brightly to be dry. 

Dís rested a hand on her brother’s shoulder. She, too, looked immensely tired. 

Bilbo was sick of tiredness. Dwarves should never be so weary. 

“I think the two of you should speak alone,” she said, gently but not pityingly. 

Such a shame, he thought numbly, that he was just beginning to truly like her. 

Gandalf rose from his seat, the royal chambers tall enough that even he could easily stand to his full height. “It would be best if we departed tomorrow, as soon as supplies are gathered,” he told them simply, before he turned and walked slowly out, Dís right behind him. 

The only sound after the door closed was the crackling of the flame. 

…

They lay in each other’s arms for many hours that final night. Few words were spoken. Few words needed to be spoken. 

They lay in the quiet and drank in the sight of each other, the warmth of each other’s skin.

“I could survive in Dale,” Bilbo said softly. “It’s not so very far away.”

“Dale is not your home,” Thorin answered, just as quietly.

“Well, neither is the Shire!” Bilbo snapped, and his anger just as quickly crashed like a falling wave back into familiar, incomprehensibly vast grief. “Not anymore,” he whispered. 

“Kurdel.” Thorin’s voice was full of love and sorrow in equal measure. “It seems I must again apologize. It feels, sometimes, that since I plucked you from your home, I have brought you nothing but pain and misery.”

Bilbo’s hand tightened around his, where they gripped each other beneath the blankets. “I wouldn’t take it back,” he breathed. “Any of it. I almost wish I could, that I _wanted_ to, because if I did I think maybe this wouldn’t hurt so very much. But if I could go back, I don’t think there’s a single thing I could bear to change, even knowing that this was coming.” 

Thorin let out a breath that was more of a sob. “Marry me.” 

Bilbo laughed, blinking back the moisture in his eyes. “I have already said I wanted to, you silly dwarf.” 

“No.” Thorin reached out to cradle his face, a thumb running along the curve of one pointed ear. “Marry me. Here, tonight. We do not need a grand ceremony, we need only witnesses.” 

“You would marry me? Even though I cannot stay with you?” he whispered, so softly he could barely hear the words himself.

“Without hesitation,” Thorin murmured immediately. “My heart is yours, now and forever, no matter how much distance lies between us. And perhaps, when our times in this world comes to an end, we will be together again, for Aulë would never be so cruel as to keep a married pair apart in death.” 

Bilbo reached up to cup the hand against his face, curling his own smaller fingers around Thorin’s calloused but gentle ones. “Okay,” he whispered. “I’ll marry you, amrâlimê.”

Within the hour, the Company, plus Dís and Gandalf, were gathered in their chambers. Bilbo greeted the rest of the company warmly, catching up on the things he’d missed as Thorin pulled Ori aside to write out the marriage contract. There were tears in more than one pair of eyes. 

Thorin finally left Ori to go over to the massive writing desk he’d spent many nights working away at, and take something out of one of the drawers. 

He brought it back over, and Bilbo could see it was a beautifully carved wooden box. When he opened it, there were a pair of metal beads, intricate and gorgeous. 

“These are stunning,” Bilbo said in awe, reaching out to touch them delicately. 

Thorin smiled a tiny smile, the first he’d seen all night. “They are crafted of mine own hand,” he said, a hint of pride in his tone. “As soon as I was fit to forge after you’d accepted my proposal.” 

Bilbo picked up one of the beads, rolling it gently between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t know how to do a marriage braid,” he admitted. 

“That’s okay,” Thorin reassured him. “My hands will guide yours. First,” he gestured to Dís, who was holding a candle. She handed it to him, and he held it out between them. “We pass the beads through the flame. This is to symbolize the forging of our bond.” He took the second bead, and passed it through the candle flame, slow enough for the fire to lick at the elegant metal, but quick enough to avoid being burnt. 

Bilbo copied him. The metal was hot between his fingers, but his grip never loosened.

He took Thorin’s courting braid in hand and carefully undid it, placing the courting bead in the wooden box. When he was done, he waited, fingers resting in the dark hair, until Thorin’s hands joined his. 

Blue eyes met brown as the dwarf’s skillful fingers lead his, braiding an intricate pattern beneath his hands. 

When they finished, Bilbo was the one to open the clasp on the bead and close it on the end of the braid, sealing it in place. 

Then it was Thorin’s turn. His fingers carded through Bilbo’s golden curls, twisting them deftly together. Bilbo’s eyes flitted across the others gathered in the room, across Fíli and Kíli’s wide bright eyes, over the very quietly sniffling Dwalin, over Nori’s quiet smile as he met Bilbo’s eyes. All of them, the whole company, gathered for this moment. 

His family. 

The click of the bead snapping shut beside his ear brought his attention back. He touched the new braid, mirroring Thorin’s, though significantly shorter. The new bead was slightly heavier than the courting one, and he found the weight comforting. 

He smiled softly. “If we were both hobbits, we’d put flowers in each other’s hair.” 

Something brightened in Thorin’s face. “Flowers? Such as these?” He reached for the potted plant, fingers grazing the battered purple blossoms.

Bilbo nodded, grinning. “Something like those, yes.” 

Thorin’s hand gently wrapped around two of the flowers. He plucked them, delicately, holding the fragile things as carefully as though they were the most valuable of treasures. 

Then he hesitated, and Bilbo realized what he was waiting for. 

He smiled again, and held his palms out. “My hands will guide yours,” he promised, and Thorin rested his hands in his, flowers and all. 

He showed Thorin’s fingers how to twine the stem of one of the flowers into the hair above his other ear, opposite the braid. 

Then, he did the same to Thorin’s hair. 

Thorin looked at him with such softness and adoration, and the sight of the purple bloom opposite the silver bead took Bilbo’s breath away. 

“Now for the contract?” he asked softly. Thorin nodded. 

Ori moved to fetch it, but Bilbo stopped him with a gesture. 

“I’ll stand for this,” he said firmly, already weakly pulling himself to his feet. 

He ended up having to lean heavily on Thorin, his legs shaky as a newborn fawn’s, but he made it to the desk. 

The contract was far shorter than he had expected, even seeing as it had been written barely ten minutes earlier. 

In fact, it was a mere single sentence.

_I vow that I shall always come back to the man I have married, as soon as the valar will allow it._

Beneath were two lines for them to sign, and two more for witnesses. 

Bilbo’s signature was as clumsy as his weakened fingers, but the name _Bilbo Baggins_ was there, clear as day. 

Thorin signed the other line, in flowing, elegant script. Balin and Dís signed as witnesses.

And it was done.

The ceremonial atmosphere dissolved, as company members piled in for hugs and congratulations. There were tears and songs, and Bombur made a run to the kitchen for ale and the cookies he’d been baking earlier that evening.

It wasn’t the same as the engagement party. There was an undercurrent of grief, and a desperation to be happy in spite of it. 

Bilbo tired quickly, but refused to give in to the exhaustion. 

He was going to have this night, if nothing else. 

Thorin noticed, of course, but to his eternal relief and gratitude, he didn’t push him to rest. He merely helped prop some pillows behind him and sat down next to him on the bed, their sides pressed together. 

With his husband at his side, he wrapped himself in a cloak of joy and love, surrounded by family. 

…

The morning was cold, and snow covered the ground, but the weather was calm enough to travel. 

Stepping outside the mountain came as jolt, powerful as a spike of adrenaline. He sank his toes through the snow to feel the rock beneath. It still wasn’t soil, but he already felt the weakness receding, and with it his heart sank further as Gandalf’s words solidified. 

The entire company came with them to the front gate of the kingdom. A pony and supplies were gathered for Bilbo to ride alongside Gandalf, and emotion-filled goodbyes were exchanged. 

Kíli was openly bawling, as he and Fíli nearly suffocated him in their embraces. Dwalin, too, almost crushed him, with great affection. 

“I’m going to miss you all so very much,” he managed to say over Bombur’s shoulder, his feet no longer touching the ground as he was passed from hug to hug.

“Aye,” Bofur said in a choked voice. “As we will you.” 

Bifur nodded rapidly, and said something in teary Khuzdul. Even without understanding the words, Bilbo got the gist, and hugged him tightly. 

He saved Thorin for last. 

Bilbo touched the marriage bead above his ear, looking up at the dwarven king. 

His husband reached down, and gently pressed their foreheads together, letting out a shuddering breath against his lips.

Bilbo didn’t close his eyes. He kept them open, drinking in every line of the king’s face. “I vow,” he said softly. “This will not be the last time we meet. I promise it.” 

Thorin huffed a laugh. “If there is one thing I have faith in, it is the force of your will. If you promise it, I believe it.”

“Good,” Bilbo whispered. “Believe it.” He touched the twin bead in Thorin’s hair before he drew away. 

It hurt to turn and mount his pony. It hurt to wave goodbye to the people he’d come to love so dearly, and it hurt to make their way down the road away from Erebor.

As they drew farther and farther away towards Laketown and beyond, he wondered if it would ever stop hurting.

…

The eight months that followed Bilbo’s departure were some of the coldest and emptiest that Thorin had ever lived through. The time passed both excruciatingly slowly and within a hammer’s strike. It might have been eight years or eight days, for all that it really mattered. 

He found ways to occupy his time. He couldn’t avoid it. Truly, it was a kindness to be king, for there were always people and problems to demand his attention, and he embraced the distraction. 

Dís had other opinions. 

“Thorin, you’re not coping,” she snapped, pulling plans for repairs to the tailor’s district out from in front of him so he was forced to look at her. 

He gave her his most ferocious glower in return, though he suspected it was nowhere near as terrifying as it would once have been. 

“I am coping perfectly well,” he snarled. “I am taking care of everything this kingdom needs.” 

“This kingdom deserves more than to be a distraction from your grief!” she shouted right back. 

He slammed a fist down on the surface of the desk. The wood cracked under the force, but he didn’t care. “ _What else am I supposed to do? Would you have me lie down and die of heartbreak? Can’t you understand this is the only way for me to stay alive?_ ” The words tore from his aching chest, leaving nothing but hollowness in their place.

He slumped back in his seat, breathing heavily. 

“Thorin,” Dís sighed, and lay a hand on his shoulder, firm but gentle. “I understand far better than most, you absolute fool. I’d crack you over the head for that if I couldn’t see how far gone you are. I have waited to see if, perhaps, you could find some peace in ruling, but I don’t believe there’s any peace for you to find here, no matter how hard you’ve fought for it. 

You have done so much for your people already, but there is one more thing you must give them. They deserve a ruler whose heart lies with them and this kingdom, not far away with the green hills and sunshine.”

He turned to face her, anger and frustration sparking weakly, as though from an anvil struck. “And how can I give them that, Dís? My heart doesn’t belong to me, hasn’t since I stepped into his little hole in the ground for the very first time. How can I give them what I don’t have myself?”

Dís rolled her eyes, and smacked him in the back of the head. “Stubborn idiot. I swear that crown of yours has more brains in it off your skull than on. That’s what I’m telling you, you cannot give them what you don’t have, that’s the _point._ ” 

“It is not like you to be cryptic. I hate it,” he growled. His forehead creased heavily as he stared at her. “You sound as though you’re saying…” 

He trailed off, and she raised an eyebrow at him. “Finally got your ears to work, then?” 

“Dís,” he breathed. “You can’t be offering to - ”

“I am,” she said firmly. “Out of loyalty and love for this kingdom and for you, I am.” 

He stood, eyes fixed on her. Then, abruptly, he launched himself around the desk, and wrapped his arms around her. 

“You and your sons have always been the best of any of us,” he murmured into her shoulder. “I do not say it nearly enough, but I love you dearly, namadith.” 

Her arms came up to wrap around him in return. “I know,” she sighed. “And I the same.” 

…

The day after the new queen’s coronation, a pony left Erebor, a dwarf who was not a king upon her back.

… 

The green door looked much the same as it had the first time he’d ever seen it, but the emotions it sparked were worlds different. 

He was anxious, and excited. 

This was not the beginning of a journey, but the end of one. 

He knocked on the green door. 

For several long, heart-pounding moments, there was nothing. 

Then, the sound of footsteps approached the door swiftly, and the most beautiful voice to ever grace his ears rang through the air as the door swung open. 

“Hello, Bell, you’re quite early for tea - “ 

Bilbo fell silent, frozen in place as he looked up at his husband. 

Thorin touched his marriage bead. “I made a vow,” he said, and then his arms were full of hobbit, and laughter rang through Bag End. 

… 

Seven years after the great dragon Smaug was killed, after the reclamation of the mountain which now stood proud and full of light and life once more, a raven arrived with a letter for the Queen. The letter read:

_My dear namadith,_

_Against my better judgement, we will be returning to the mountain in eleven month’s time for the marriage of Kíli to that blasted elf. And might I add, it was very clever of you to address the invitation to Bilbo alone to ensure he saw it ahead of me, for he was swift enough to make it clear that I have no leg to stand on when it comes to falling in love outside of our people._

_~~Perhaps during our visit I could help arrange meetings between Kíli and some of the lords’ children, to see if one of them catches his ey~~ _

_Bilbo is right, of course, and as Kíli’s uncle, few things would make me happier than to be there to see him wed his One._

_Except, of course, to see him find his One in anyone NOT an elf, but I can have enough grace to accept that there are some things even I can’t control, no matter how hard-headed you may call me._

_Bilbo is busy growing a plant to take with us for the wedding. I believe he said it was a spirea, though I confess I am still not very talented at distinguishing between the different species he tends. In any case, he seems very confident that it will be hardy enough to survive the journey, and lively and strong enough to keep him perfectly healthy for the duration of our visit._

_Nonetheless, I would be even more in your debt than the infinite debt I already owe you if you could see to it that there is at least a small garden that he may visit somewhere under the mountain by the time we arrive, just to be certain. Preferably one with flowers._

_Apologies for the delayed response to your last letter. When the raven came, we were away for, in fact, another wedding, that of Bilbo’s cousins, Primula and Drogo. You would like them. Their young Frodo reminds me of the boys when they were little, and I thank Mahal for his parents’ sake that there is only the one of him._

_Though, I will admit that I do not at all mind being again an uncle to one so young, especially under brighter circumstances._

_His mother has gifted me with a truly beautiful scarf, and I attempted to commission her a second one in the colors of Durin to give to you when I next see you, but she refused all gold I tried to offer, and insisted that it would be a gift for family, even though you have never met._

_As I said, you would like her, and you will love your scarf. If it is half as fine as mine, it will be more than worthy of a queen._

_~~Until we next mee~~ _

_Bilbo would like me to add to please let Bombur know that the cinnamon loaf recipe he sent was excellent and exactly what he was looking for, and that we’re eagerly looking forward to the meat pie recipe he’s been perfecting (some of us more eagerly than others. The one thing I think I will never adapt to, dear sister, is the amount of vegetables in the hobbit diet)._

_Until we next meet, Mahal bless you and all our kin._

_With love,_

_Thorin_

**Author's Note:**

> These past few weeks, I have been obsessively working my way through every Bilbo/Thorin fic I can find, and my god are there ever some fantastic writers in this fandom. I don't really know how many people are still reading Hobbit fanfic other than me, but this idea snagged me and wouldn't let go, and besides, I felt like I needed to contribute something back for all the joy and satisfaction the other writers for this pair have given me. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this as much as I've enjoyed devouring other fics like the little fic gremlin I am, and I would love any kudos or comments you wanna leave!
> 
> Khuzdul translations:  
> Ghivashel - treasure of treasures  
> Kidhuzurâl - golden one  
> Amrâlimê - my love  
> Kurdel - heart of all hearts  
> Namadith - little sister
> 
> The line "They are crafted of mine own hand" that Thorin says when he presents Bilbo with the marriage beads is a very tiny reference to the absolutely lovely fic, [You Got Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3439895) by drunkonwriting, which is a personal favorite of mine and y'all should read it too. 
> 
> Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://sunflowersandink.tumblr.com/)!


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